We Both Thought We Were Christ
She was a trembling cathedral in blue gloves. A charlatan prophet. A tinfoil hat that talked like scorched stone, a screeching blade that cut stocks of corns for Hebrews. We were the ordinary din, her disciples or her anti-Christs. Her angels or her devils. We were the ones that sowed or the ones that reaped. I entered the cave of her dwelling. There in that dwelling, I would wait to bless the pilgrims. I was oblivion of sin. A refugee king. An executioner of pain and a plague of love. The one that never strays but vanishes, the one that returns, the executioner, the plague, a refugee king. Was it I who was love and her hate? Or were we both? Or we were neither? Trembling cathedrals vanishing in the night, charlatan prophets, the babies of tinfoil hats and screeching blades.
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